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Stories always tell
of the one who wanders, then
returns home…like me.

…create. Impatient
that I won’t pay attention
when I’m writing stuff.

Listserv fight breaks out.
Among civil people, the
retorts well-researched.

At the interview
J’s hired on the spot, full of
new employee glee.

Has it really been
a month since I told you all
about my day, dear?

J replaced my mouse
that broke. M’s card made me cry.
Both my greatest gift.

Deciding who to
take like negotiating
Mideast peace treaty.

The play was about
them. His unrequited love
her indifference.

Who will you be, and
from where? What will have brought you
here – mere chance or choice?

My weirdness is as
apparent in my kids as
streaks in a fake tan.

From a Revealing
start to this auspicious point -
my life in short form.

In wordless despair
M dissolves in tears clutching
me like a life vest.

An adult blankie.
To take one from its owner
will make grown men cry.

We all complain there’s
no place to plug in. One by
one, our laptops die.

Haiku, like bonsai,
needs care and pruning. A mind
unfocused kills both.

Wan, pale, red-eyed, she’s
the poster wife of Wynette’s
song, “Stand By Your Man.”

Emily Bronte * labored quietly but I * scream “Here are my words!”

It’s said women swoon
at his rallies, yet his wife
once called him stinky.

It’s fun to see what
it’s like and then go back to
being nobody.

Like a hick I tilt my
head to see the top and
ponder tossed pennies.

I am the dull one, struck
mute by accomplishment
what I do, nothing.

a dilemma of
riches in tiny topaz
the art of language

“Read my poem? Please?”
In real life I’d get blank stares.
Here, you’re back for more.

Just over five months
This one four hundred fifty
Art or wasted time?

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Enjoy. Don’t steal.

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© Copyright 2008 Gimble
All Rights Reserved

Content licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution- NonCommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported license. If you reproduce following CC guidelines,
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